Black Feathers Calling
by Nathan-Daystorm
Summary: When Tom Sawyer dies during a mission, his fiance alongside him, what will he do to get revenge? What price will he pay?
1. Default Chapter

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Black Feather's Calling

Prologue

Disclaimer:  The only characters I own are the OCs.  Credit for the "snow with lightning behind it" part and the sentence immediately following it go to Lewis Black, a comic genius, though I did paraphrase his joke.  Oh, yeah, and this entire story is going to be pretty gory.  Just a warning.

AN:  Okay, this is a movieverse LXG/Crow crossover, in a way.  A little unorthodox, but hey, that's what makes it interesting, to me at least.  Now, something I want to note right here:  As you read the prologue, you'll see a few derogatory remarks towards Americans.  I don't mean these at all, and am in fact an American myself.  Please just take them in the spirit they're meant in, namely to make a villain that people will (hopefully) dislike.  Also, I'm putting this story in the LXG sections since that is the basis for the story.

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It was a cold, rainy night.

Why was it always a cold, rainy night?  Why were the dusky, hot nights always the nights for making love, and the cold, rainy nights the ones for making war and death?

Tom Sawyer didn't have the faintest idea, and for all the cheap romance novels he forced himself to read, he still had no clue.  Either way, it didn't really matter that much to him.  Cold, rainy night or hot, dusky night, he'd get the mission done whenever.  Hell, it could be snowing with lightning behind it.  They may not talk about that kind of weather anywhere, but he'd get a mission done in it if necessary.  Besides, it wasn't like this was unusual weather for London.  Far from it, actually.

So what was it that had his hackles rising up so far that God couldn't even see where they stopped?  What had him so far on edge he was _over_ it?  And, most of all…what the hell was jabbing him in the foot?

"Aw, damnit," he cursed, realization striking him like a ton of bricks, "I got a pebble in it."  It would figure, that on an already unpleasant night, he'd get a pebble stuck in his boot.  A night already made unpleasant by the downpour, dullness, and freezing temperature had just been made worse because of a pebble in his shoe.  "I can stop a madman from starting a war," Tom groaned, gazing out over the street he'd been assigned to watch, "but I can't avoid getting pebbles in my boots."  He sighed, directing some of the air upwards to try and blow his blonde bangs out of his face, and added a grunted, "Figures."

The League was doing reconnaissance on an opium dealer who was setting up a criminal syndicate somewhere in London.  The contacts had given very few specific locations, and Tom just so happened to wind up lucky enough to be assigned to the East End.  He was on the roof of a bar, supposedly to listen in on anyone exiting the establishment, and also to pick them off in the unlikely chance that the organizer of the syndicate happened to wander by.  He had his Winchester with him, but had been convinced into leaving his Colts in his cabin on the Nautilus through Skinner pointing out that they would weigh him down while he was climbing up the back wall of the bar.

So far, nothing had happened.  It was dull, and boring, with no chance of anything happening at all, really.  So, that thought in mind, Tom Sawyer reached down and pulled his boot off, turning it upside down to get the pebble out.

A loud BANG! sounded in the cold night air, and for a moment, Tom didn't move.

And then the boot fell from a suddenly limp hand.  Blood gushed from a wound in his chest, and he fell to his knees.  The wound wasn't to his heart, luckily, though through the haze of pain he guessed that a lung had been punctured.  He tried to raise his Winchester and level it at the sniper that was smirking in the window of the abandoned building across the street, but a tsking sound from behind him ended all that fairly quickly.  He let himself fall to the ground, but caught himself and rolled over so he could see who was behind him.

"You," Tom managed to hiss out, eyes locking with the man he had been assigned to snipe.  Tom's narrow-eyed determination fled within seconds, though, when his eyes traveled down the man's arm, to the bruised, battered, and very much naked young woman that was being clutched by the back of the neck.  "Becky…."

"Yes, Agent Sawyer," the large man's deep voice stated.  "You're fiancé.  It's lucky that your friend, Aadil, informed me that she would be coming aboard when she was."

"Aadil," Tom breathed.  Aadil was a very friendly member of Nemo's crew, or so he had thought.  "What…why?"  He'd used too much air in that sentence, and the painful, hacking cough that came after it resulted in several gouts of blood spattering onto his shirt.

"Because he is tired of the arrogance of you _freaks_," the large man spat.

"I'm not…extraordinary."

"You're an American," the man continued.  "That's worse."  He grinned then and held Becky's body up in the air high enough for Tom to see the defilement and viciousness that had been done to her, recent by the signs of it.  "So is she, but she has…other aspects that kept us entertained for a while."  Tom's face twisted into a snarl, but he couldn't get it out due to a lack of air.  His lung was gradually filling up with blood, he knew, and soon it would be too late to salvage it.  "But we've had our fun, which means she's now just another useless American pig."  He casually tossed her over the roof of the building, and despite his weakness, Tom rolled over and tried to reach out for her.  Becky was able to get out one scream before smacking into the ground with a sickening thud.  Tom winced and looked away, almost in enough time to keep the sight of one of her eyeballs popping out from being burned into his mind.

Almost.

"Monster," he rasped, rolling over as best he could, barely able to flop onto his back.

"You work with a man who, in his altered state, devours prostitutes, and _I'm_ the monster?"  The large man laughed and then leaned down, bring his face very, very close to Tom's, as if daring the Secret Service Agent to do something.  He was black, well muscled, incredibly tall, and had a bit of a beard.  "You toss around insults, but share none for yourself, pig.  I think I need to remedy that."  Quite abruptly, he rammed a booted foot into Tom's gut.  When Tom had no reaction, the man shook his head and sighed.  "I see.  Well, I suppose that's that then."  The man reached down and grabbed Tom by the collar, and with one vicious toss, sent Tom flying over the roof.  He landed, with the same sickening thud, next to Becky.  Somehow, his arm wound up draping around her shoulders in just the right way.  The black man sneered at it before turning and climbing down the grappling hook that Agent Sawyer had forgotten to pull back up.

A black bird flapped downwards and landed next to Tom.  The bird gazed at him for a few moments before flying off.  A sole black feather wafted back down, coming to rest on the back of Tom Sawyer's head.

And somewhere, an ethereal voice was screaming.


	2. Unique Resurrection

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Black Feather's Calling

Chapter One

Unique Resurrection

"It's not death if you refuse it."

James O'Barr's "The Crow."

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The figure awoke from darkness, into darkness.

The figure wasn't sure where he was, or who he was.  He knew some simple things, such as that he was human and not, for instance, a cat.  He knew that he was male, instead of, say, a soap dish.  He knew that the articles of clothing he was currently wearing were called, altogether, a suit.  He knew the difference between a suit and a loincloth, and knew that one shouldn't wear a loincloth.

He knew his emotions.  He knew happiness, fear, anxiety, stress, frustration, indifference, and all the others.  He knew also that he was, at this moment, feeling rage, apathy, and depression, but he couldn't figure out why.

He knew also that he was lying on his back, on a somewhat comfortable material.  There was wood underneath.  He could feel it.  He also felt the incredible proximity of the ceiling of this odd room in which he was lying on his back, and knew that the ceiling was not supposed to be that close.  So he decided that he was wrong, and that the ceiling wasn't that close.  No one in their right minds would make a room so narrow.  That thought in mind, he sat up.

And went straight back down after banging his head on the roof.  He hadn't even made it into a position that could be called "half-sitting" let alone a full, complete, torso and head are vertical, straight backed (or slouching, which he somehow knew he preferred) full seat.

That line of thinking is eventually what led him to the conclusion that he wasn't supposed to be here.  No one was supposed to be in a room this narrow.  The room itself wasn't even supposed to _be_ this narrow, after all.  How could anyone live in it?

Suddenly, realization came smacking into him like a falling rock.  No one was _supposed_ to live here.

He was in a casket.

He was in _his own_ casket.

He began pounding his fists against the ceiling, which he now realized was the lid.  Or door.  Or whatever the things on the top of caskets were called, he wasn't sure.  It didn't really matter to him at the moment anyway.  After all, he'd been buried alive!  He only had a limited amount of air, and he would use it up very soon if he didn't get help!

He neglected to notice the fact that he wasn't breathing.

"Help," he shouted, banging as hard as he could on the lid.  Oddly, he banged as hard as he could each time, and yet each time got harder and harder.  "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"  He began panting.  He had to be running out of breath by now, had to be.  "GODDAMNIT, SOMEBODY **HELP** ME!"

And then he put his fist through the lid.

This sudden occurrence was enough to stop the figure in his tracks.  Was he supposed to be able to do that?  He knew he was strong, but he didn't think he was strong enough to put his hand through a casket.  He decided that it was a fluke, and tested it with his other hand.

When that one went through as well, he was forced to rethink his earlier conclusion.

Then he decided that he should focus on getting out of the casket, and worry about the how and why of it once he was, y'know, not buried in a hole six feet below the surface of the Earth.

He knew, vaguely, that he should be feeling pain from splinters, rocks, and all other sorts of things as he punched his way out of his casket and then dug his way up through six feet of hard packed soil.  He knew, vaguely, that he shouldn't be able to dig through six feet of soil without running out of oxygen completely and dieing.

Of course, he wasn't supposed to be buried alive, either.

He used his rage to fuel his digging.  It seemed to help, as he moved faster and faster the more of it he applied.  He knew, vaguely, that the adrenaline in his body was pumping, and that was causing the extra strength.  He didn't care.  At this point, he just wanted out.  As odd as it sounded, he just wanted to feel air again.

He thrust his hand up; almost ready to give up, when he felt it burst through into cold air.  His determination renewed, he did the same with the other hand, and managed to haul the rest of his body up and out onto the ground.

It was a cold, rainy night.

The figure's blonde bangs were being plastered to his face by the rain, but he didn't care.  He was just happy to be alive.  He gazed, out of morbid curiosity, to the headstone at the head of the grave he'd just crawled out of.

There was a large black bird, a bird he recognized as a crow, perched on the top of it.  The headstone itself was rather simple, listing a name, date of birth, and a short epitaph.****

**Tom Sawyer**

**1873-1899**

**If only you realized how extraordinary you really were….**

That felt…odd, to the figure.  Something about the name, and the birthday listed…something about the date of the death, for that matter.  Still, he was more concerned with something else at the moment.

The bird was staring at him.

It was unnerving, having a large, oily black bird like that stare at you.  It didn't move its head, as the figure knew most birds were supposed to do.  It didn't peck at anything.  It didn't blink.

It.  Just.  Stared.

The figure was already angry, and this just added to it.  Finally, after a few moments of a staring contest, the figure blurted out, "You waiting for something?"  The slight accent to his voice didn't seem to surprise the figure.

"Yeah," the bird cawed.  "You to get your ass over here."

"HOLY FUCK," the figure swore, scooting back towards a spindly tree that was behind him.  "You talk!"

"Yeah, and?  Look, kid, we're workin' on a timeframe here.  Just get over here and touch the headstone."

"I'm not going anywhere near a talking bird," the figure retorted.

"Christfuck," the bird sighed, "you're bein' difficult, aren't you?"  The figure looked like he was about to retort, but the bird rode on overtop of him.  "Look, just get the fuck over here before I peck your goddamn eyeballs out."  The bird then seemed to mumble, which served to further unnerve the figure, "Not like it'd do anything to you, but hell, you dunno that yet."  The figure gazed at the bird for what seemed like forever before crawling towards the headstone.

For some reason, his legs weren't working right.

The closer he got to the headstone, the more his sense of foreboding grew.  By the time he got within reach of it, his arms were barely moving.  His hand felt like lead as he reached out towards the weatherworn gray stone.  As soon as he touched it, he knew why.__

_FLASH!  Tom, when he was young, talking with Becky Thatcher._

_FLASH!  Tom and Huckleberry Finn, his childhood friend, shadowing a man called the Phantom._

_FLASH!  Tom standing over Huck's grave, looking grim and full of anguish._

_FLASH!  Tom handing over a Winchester to an older man that he suddenly recognizes as Allan Quartermain._

_FLASH!  Tom, poised and ready to fire at Moriarty as he ran along the ice towards the Exploration Pod._

_FLASH!  Tom proposing to Becky, down on one knee, in front of the entire League of Extraordinary Gentlemen._

_FLASH!  Tom, watching a naked, bruised, battered, and cut Becky Thatcher fall from a roof and smack into the ground.  An eyeball popped out of her head and rolled around a bit._

_FLASH!  Tom looking at the man that had killed Becky, the focus of all his rage and pain._

FLASH!  Tom, watching as the ground came rushing up at him.  In his mind, he screamed for revenge.  He landed and died instantly…but a crow perched near him afterwards, and then flew away, a black feather wafting down to rest on his head.

Tom Sawyer bucked forward and retched into his grave.


	3. Masking the Tragedy

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Black Feather's Calling

Chapter Two

Masking the tragedy….

Sethoz:  Dun blink too much, you might freeze that way.  Which would be bad, definitely bad.

Queerquail:  Well, evil?  Not really, he's just going to give the bad guys what they deserve in gruesome, incredibly violent manner.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The cold rain was beginning to annoy Tom Sawyer, despite his being dead.

Well, dead, but not really _dead_…well, not really _un_dead, either.  He was…what was he?  Well, the bird seemed to know something, and it could apparently speak English, so he figured it couldn't hurt to ask the bird.  "What…what am I?"

"You're a crow," the bird called.  "An' before you give me the inevitable 'That's what you are' line, lemme explain things to you."  Tom nodded mutely, not sure what his response was supposed to be.  "Well, you know you're dead.  Thing is, you couldn't go all the way, you were too damn angry.  So I brought you back down here to, basically, partake in some violent anger management."

"…I'm going to kill that rat bastard," Tom growled, the anger suddenly and swiftly taking hold.  "What he did to Becky…to me…."

"To more people after you," the bird cawed.  "That man's killed before you and killed after you.  He's ruined families, raped daughters and mothers, an' beat old men for their meager wages.  He's also introduced opium to the kids in London, an' I'm not talkin' about the rebellious teenagers.  I'm talkin' about ten and under.  He's corruptin' all the innocence that this city has left."

"I don't care about that," Tom snarled.  "Just tell me where his men are.  I'll start with them."

"Which one?"  When Tom quirked an eyebrow, the bird added, "He has more than one, y'know."

"The sniper."

"Benjamin McDougal, an Irishman.  Crack shot, trained both in Ireland and America.  Put a bullet through your lungs a year ago."

"I know what he did," Tom snapped.  "Just tell.  Me.  Where.  To.  Find.  Him."

"First things first, kiddo," the bird cawed.  "You really wanna be killin' people in your funeral suit?"

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Tom was perched on the roof of a building overlooking the docks.  His bird was perched on his shoulder, and they were watching the mighty Nautilus rise out of the water.  The ramps descended, and the League – Mina, Skinner, Jekyll, and Nemo – exited, probably heading off for another meeting with their liaison.  Tom was almost tempted to kill him too, just for the hell of it, but he knew he couldn't.  Mina lead, obviously, and Nemo and Jekyll walked behind her, solemn.  Skinner hung back, not looking as merry as he used to, more thoughtful.  Tom almost grinned at that, Skinner thinking.  He had always known it did, in fact, happen, but Skinner covered it up so well it was hard to tell.  "Go," the bird cawed.  Skinner snapped his head around for a second, and then, after seeing nothing, turned and continued on.  Once the League was out of sight, Tom swooped out of the shadows, landing face first on the ground.  He should have died from the impact, but instead just got up and slid into the shadows.  The bird flew on ahead, into the Nautilus, telling him when there were crewmen in a given hallway and when the hallway was clear.

He got to his old cabin in this way, and after forcing the lock, changed into his old clothes.  Then came his Colts, which he holstered quickly, and then he hefted the Winchester.  There was something both comforting and disturbing about the presence of his old possessions, and to Tom, they fit him even more perfectly now.  "Alright, let's go," Tom stated, turning and exiting as the bird continued his look-out duties.

As Tom was passing Skinner's room, the bird paused, and then flew in.  "C'mon kid, there's somethin' you gotta do."  Tom quirked an eyebrow, but followed the bird in, thanking Skinner's forgetfulness that the door was open.  The bird was perched next to Skinner's container of greasepaint, and it lightly pecked at the lid.  Tom went over to it, removing the lid and gazing down at it.  "White," he mumbled, flashing back to Becky.  She'd loved the theater, and had bought replicas of the theater masks at her first opportunity.  "I see," Tom spoke softly, and scooped out a glob of the greasepaint.  He smeared it all over his face, gazing at the mirror afterwards.  "It's still wet.  I need something to dry it."

"Didn't the vampiress use that powder stuff on her face," the crow cawed in question.

"Go.  Also…Becky had this black lipstick she used for Halloween costumes…bring that back here too."  The crow cawed an affirmative, and then took flight.  Meanwhile, Tom sat down on Skinner's bed, never taking his eyes off the mirror.

What had he become?  His eyes…they used to be brilliant emerald orbs full of optimism, a lust for life and love, and a thirst for adventure that could not be quenched.  Now, his eyes were full of burning rage and a sorrow that he couldn't describe.  He wanted to kill.  _Wanted_ to.  It wasn't like he was under orders to do so, like he'd always been able to comfort himself with before.  No, now he wanted nothing more than to make the bastards that killed the love of his life and took his own afterwards.

He tried to think back to when he was dead, and suddenly the mirror burst alive in brilliant memory.__

_Tom was following Becky through a forest at a fast pace.  Becky was laughing, carefree as ever.  No, she was even more carefree than usual, which would normally have infected Tom.  But for some reason, he wasn't as carefree as she.  He felt fire burning in his soul, a fire he couldn't comprehend.  So he hid it, laughed with Becky, and she didn't realize._

_They broke through the forest quite suddenly, and Becky stopped, admiring the picturesque view before them.  There was a rope bridge that was narrow, but not overly so, and underneath was a river.  They could see the waterfall that fed into it off to the right, and Becky seemed calmed by that view._

_Tom just felt the fire grow hotter._

_Becky smiled and took Tom's hand, leading him across the bridge, as if he couldn't walk himself.  Halfway across, though, a bird cawed, and Becky spun, her suddenly sorrowful gaze turned on Tom.  Tom, for his part, was staring, wide-eyed, at the crow perched on the rope just behind him.  "Becky, why are we stopping?"_

_"Tom…you can't come across," Becky replied, her voice full of sorrow, the kind of sorrow he never thought he'd hear in her voice, the kind of sorrow he wished he never had.  "Go back, Tom," she said, as her voice grew faint as she backed up.  Suddenly she was moving faster, towards another forest, with a light emanating from it._

_"Becky!  Becky, wait," Tom pleaded, flinging his hand out to try and stop her._

_"I'm sorry, Tom," her voice sighed, her form disappearing into the trees.  Tom looked, both enraged and sorrowful, to the bird that had caused all this to go sour._

_"Don't look at me, kid," the bird cawed.  "You're the one that won't accept it."_

_"Accept what," Tom questioned, debating whether to just beat the bird to death or just snap its neck and cook it for dinner._

_"Your death," the bird cawed simply.  "You're dead," the bird continued, "but you can't accept it.  You've been dead a year."  Tom's brow was furrowed as memory was beginning to come back to him._

_"It's…it's only been…a couple seconds."_

_"Time flows differently here," the bird cawed.  "Especially for the angry ones."  Before Tom could ask, the bird explained, "Lost souls, like you.  You can't accept that your dead because of **how** you died, and you're so damned full of righteous rage that you can't cross over.  So I get turned into a crow and guide you back.  Once you're there, I guide you on your little quest, and then take you back."_

_"I…I want to stay with Becky."_

_"Can you get rid of that anger inside you?  That rage?  That fire?"_

_"No…," Tom uttered, his voice soft and haunting._

_"Then off you go," the bird cawed, and Tom looked at it, his eyes questioning._

_"You mean off the bridge?"_

_"Yeah.  What, you think that water down there's just for show?  That's the barrier that all lost souls go through.  Now jump, kiddo, or you'll be here on Limbo for all eternity."_

_"Limbo?"  The bird flew over to a little signpost at the beginning of the bridge and cawed at the sign._

_"Limbo Bridge," Tom read off, and then smirked.  "Cute."  He then pulled himself up onto the rope, resting his feet on it in a very light crouch.  "That's a long way down."_

_"You won't feel a thing," the bird cawed.  "See you on the other side."  Then Tom jumped, spreading his arms wide as he fell, and when he hit the water, he seemed to liquefy, and then…he forgot everything, and woke up in his coffin._

Tom flew backwards, his legs spasming and sending him into the wall with enough force to break his spine.  There was a sickening cracking-snapping sound, and then he felt his spinal cord healing, knitting back together.  It was an odd feeling, but a manic grin found its way onto his face.

This left him room to be creative.

The bird was sitting there, watching him from the vanity.  "You ready yet, kiddo," the bird asked.  It flew forward and unceremoniously dropped the container of powder onto his face.  Tom coughed and closed his eyes, trying to keep the powder from getting in them.  "Hurry up, the League'll be comin' back soon!"  Tom sighed, got up, and retrieved the lipstick.  He avoided looking at the mirror, instead opening the lipstick and placing it to his forehead, halfway above his left eye.  He began trailing it down, closing his eyelid and going over that, until the black spike tapered off to a point on the same level as his upper lip.  He did the same on the other side of his face, and then trailed it along his lips, until no amount of natural color could be seen through the black.  Then he thought about which mask he'd want to represent.  Then it came to him.  The emotion he'd most felt with Becky.  The emotion he'd felt moments before being assigned to the post.  The emotion he felt when kissing Becky, when holding her in his arms.

He painted a manic smile on his face, one half curving up from the left corner of his mouth, one half curving up from the other.  The bird cawed, a normal caw, before flying out.  Tom glanced up at the mirror, seeing himself hitting the water…and he thrust his fist out, shattering the mirror, dispelling the memory.  Then he turned, leaving the Nautilus, his Winchester slung over his shoulder.


End file.
